Chapter 1
I'd been sexting my boss for six months.
He had no idea.
Every night, he told me I was the only woman who made his heart race.
Every morning, he walked past my desk without a single glance.
Now he wanted to meet.
And I would rather disappear off the face of the earth.
It started innocently enough—if anything on an anonymous matching app could be called innocent.
I'd just been dumped. My boyfriend of three years had left me for a yoga instructor named Sunshine. Yes, that was her actual name. So I did what any self-respecting twenty-six-year-old woman would do: I downloaded an app called "Blind Flame," poured myself a dangerous amount of wine, and started swiping.
Blind Flame was different from other dating apps. No photos. No real names. Just a voice memo introduction and a text-based profile. The whole point was to connect on a deeper level before appearances got involved.
His username was "Eleven."
His voice memo was short—deep, a little rough, like he'd just woken up. "I don't really know how this works. I'm told I'm difficult to be around. I work too much. I don't smile enough. But I'd like to try."
Something about the quiet honesty in his voice made me pause mid-swipe.
I matched with him.
Our first conversation lasted four hours. He was funny in a dry, unexpected way. He told me he'd never been in a real relationship. I told him I'd just gotten out of one and wasn't looking for anything serious. He said that was fine—he just wanted someone to talk to.
Weeks passed. Talking turned to flirting. Flirting turned to something more. He started sending voice messages late at night, his voice low and intimate, saying things that made my toes curl.
Then came the photos.
No face. That was our rule. But everything else? Fair game.
The first one he sent made me choke on my iced tea. A mirror shot. Gym. Grey sweatpants hanging dangerously low. A towel draped over one shoulder. Defined abs, not the overdone bodybuilder type—lean, sculpted, with a V-line that could cut glass.
I saved it. Obviously.
He asked for one back. I sent a photo of my collarbone and shoulder, just my skin and the strap of a black dress sliding off.
He replied: [You're going to be the death of me.]
Months flew by. He became the person I talked to first thing in the morning and the last voice I heard before falling asleep. I knew his favorite book (anything by Haruki Murakami), his biggest fear (being fundamentally unlovable), and the exact sound of his breathing when he was trying not to say something too intense.
What I didn't know was his name.
Until the company Christmas party.
I worked at Whitmore & Associates, a massive consulting firm. I was a mid-level analyst—invisible enough to avoid drama, competent enough to avoid getting fired. Our CEO, Alexander Whitmore, was a legend in the industry. Thirty years old, ruthless, cold, and so devastatingly handsome that new interns literally tripped over furniture when he walked by.
I'd seen him from a distance. Everyone had. But I'd never spoken to him directly. He existed in a different universe—glass-walled corner office, black suits, jaw permanently clenched.
At the Christmas party, they set up a Secret Santa karaoke event. Some idiot in HR thought it would be fun to have executives participate.
And that's when Alexander Whitmore stepped up to the microphone.
He cleared his throat awkwardly, looking like he'd rather be literally anywhere else. Someone in the crowd whooped. He ignored them.
Then he spoke.
"I don't really know how this works."
My blood went cold.
That voice—low, a little rough, almost reluctant.
I knew that voice. I'd listened to it whisper filthy things to me at 2 AM.
My hands started shaking. I pulled out my phone and opened Blind Flame. Eleven's profile. His voice memo. I pressed play, holding the phone to my ear while staring at the man on stage.
"I'm told I'm difficult to be around."
The same cadence. The same slight pause between sentences. The same voice.
My boss was Eleven.
My boss was the man I'd been sending provocative photos to for months.
I excused myself, went to the bathroom, and had a silent, perfectly controlled panic attack.
When I came back out, I had two options: tell him, or take this secret to my grave.
I chose the grave.
That was three months ago.
And now, Eleven—Alexander—was typing a message that would ruin everything.
[I need to see you. Not your photos. YOU. I think I'm in love with you, and I can't keep pretending a screen is enough.]
My phone buzzed on my desk. Right there. In the open-plan office. Twenty feet from his glass-walled corner office where he sat, phone in hand, clearly waiting for my reply.
I watched him through the glass. He stared at his phone. Then he looked up and scanned the office absently, his gaze passing right over me like I was furniture.
My heart was slamming so hard I was sure my colleague next to me could hear it.
I typed back: [We can't.]
Through the glass, I saw him frown.
[Why not?]
Because you sign my paychecks, I thought.
Because you'd fire me.
Because I've seen your face when you're angry, and I am not about to be on the receiving end of that.
I typed: [I'm not ready.]
His reply came instantly: [I've waited six months. I'll wait longer. But I need you to know—I'm done being patient.]
I looked up.
He was staring directly at me.
No. Not at me. Past me. At the window behind my head.
I exhaled.
But my hands were still shaking.
---
He had no idea.
Every night, he told me I was the only woman who made his heart race.
Every morning, he walked past my desk without a single glance.
Now he wanted to meet.
And I would rather disappear off the face of the earth.
It started innocently enough—if anything on an anonymous matching app could be called innocent.
I'd just been dumped. My boyfriend of three years had left me for a yoga instructor named Sunshine. Yes, that was her actual name. So I did what any self-respecting twenty-six-year-old woman would do: I downloaded an app called "Blind Flame," poured myself a dangerous amount of wine, and started swiping.
Blind Flame was different from other dating apps. No photos. No real names. Just a voice memo introduction and a text-based profile. The whole point was to connect on a deeper level before appearances got involved.
His username was "Eleven."
His voice memo was short—deep, a little rough, like he'd just woken up. "I don't really know how this works. I'm told I'm difficult to be around. I work too much. I don't smile enough. But I'd like to try."
Something about the quiet honesty in his voice made me pause mid-swipe.
I matched with him.
Our first conversation lasted four hours. He was funny in a dry, unexpected way. He told me he'd never been in a real relationship. I told him I'd just gotten out of one and wasn't looking for anything serious. He said that was fine—he just wanted someone to talk to.
Weeks passed. Talking turned to flirting. Flirting turned to something more. He started sending voice messages late at night, his voice low and intimate, saying things that made my toes curl.
Then came the photos.
No face. That was our rule. But everything else? Fair game.
The first one he sent made me choke on my iced tea. A mirror shot. Gym. Grey sweatpants hanging dangerously low. A towel draped over one shoulder. Defined abs, not the overdone bodybuilder type—lean, sculpted, with a V-line that could cut glass.
I saved it. Obviously.
He asked for one back. I sent a photo of my collarbone and shoulder, just my skin and the strap of a black dress sliding off.
He replied: [You're going to be the death of me.]
Months flew by. He became the person I talked to first thing in the morning and the last voice I heard before falling asleep. I knew his favorite book (anything by Haruki Murakami), his biggest fear (being fundamentally unlovable), and the exact sound of his breathing when he was trying not to say something too intense.
What I didn't know was his name.
Until the company Christmas party.
I worked at Whitmore & Associates, a massive consulting firm. I was a mid-level analyst—invisible enough to avoid drama, competent enough to avoid getting fired. Our CEO, Alexander Whitmore, was a legend in the industry. Thirty years old, ruthless, cold, and so devastatingly handsome that new interns literally tripped over furniture when he walked by.
I'd seen him from a distance. Everyone had. But I'd never spoken to him directly. He existed in a different universe—glass-walled corner office, black suits, jaw permanently clenched.
At the Christmas party, they set up a Secret Santa karaoke event. Some idiot in HR thought it would be fun to have executives participate.
And that's when Alexander Whitmore stepped up to the microphone.
He cleared his throat awkwardly, looking like he'd rather be literally anywhere else. Someone in the crowd whooped. He ignored them.
Then he spoke.
"I don't really know how this works."
My blood went cold.
That voice—low, a little rough, almost reluctant.
I knew that voice. I'd listened to it whisper filthy things to me at 2 AM.
My hands started shaking. I pulled out my phone and opened Blind Flame. Eleven's profile. His voice memo. I pressed play, holding the phone to my ear while staring at the man on stage.
"I'm told I'm difficult to be around."
The same cadence. The same slight pause between sentences. The same voice.
My boss was Eleven.
My boss was the man I'd been sending provocative photos to for months.
I excused myself, went to the bathroom, and had a silent, perfectly controlled panic attack.
When I came back out, I had two options: tell him, or take this secret to my grave.
I chose the grave.
That was three months ago.
And now, Eleven—Alexander—was typing a message that would ruin everything.
[I need to see you. Not your photos. YOU. I think I'm in love with you, and I can't keep pretending a screen is enough.]
My phone buzzed on my desk. Right there. In the open-plan office. Twenty feet from his glass-walled corner office where he sat, phone in hand, clearly waiting for my reply.
I watched him through the glass. He stared at his phone. Then he looked up and scanned the office absently, his gaze passing right over me like I was furniture.
My heart was slamming so hard I was sure my colleague next to me could hear it.
I typed back: [We can't.]
Through the glass, I saw him frown.
[Why not?]
Because you sign my paychecks, I thought.
Because you'd fire me.
Because I've seen your face when you're angry, and I am not about to be on the receiving end of that.
I typed: [I'm not ready.]
His reply came instantly: [I've waited six months. I'll wait longer. But I need you to know—I'm done being patient.]
I looked up.
He was staring directly at me.
No. Not at me. Past me. At the window behind my head.
I exhaled.
But my hands were still shaking.
---